February is a fluffy month in this side of California. Well, no. Rewind. It’s fluffy everywhere.
Like all those empty-hearted trees you too anticipate a bloomy spring. There is no snow here. Even a light jacket is enough to keep you warm, but you still cannot wear shorts. The sun makes the afternoons warmer and cool breeze is prominently present to have a control over your mind – is summer still a month away?
In winter and spring, one of the best things that keeps all nature loving eyes well-hydrated is the sky. It is the most dramatic part of California this time. It changes color more frequently than the silence of the wintry days. Sometimes monochromatic. Sometimes painted with assorted hues.
I was walking with him and taking pictures of the sky.
“No one knows this. This sky is California’s main asset.” he said, “As if some painter was bored of his life and poured his forte on that blue canvas through his paintbrush.”
“Yes.” I gazed out, trying to connect abstractness to uniformity.
“What do those clouds mean to you?” he threw a question all of a sudden.
“I feel, they are made of stories: stories that we whispered to the cold evenings; stories that disappeared to form those clouds. They were not needed to be inside anymore, so they’re travelling to places to feel needed.”
Then he told me a story. The story of a person who tried to follow her passion. She scripted her feelings and needs. She reread and memorized all of them, time to time refreshed her memory, and started working to make a better future: a future that was supposed to be owned by passion, hard work, and fulfilled dreams. But at the end point, she felt she wanted something else; her future was different from the story she was repeating to herself all this while.
“What did go wrong? Did a slice of her story evaporate to form assorted colored clouds in the sky?” he smiled.
It started drizzling. We reached a cafe and ordered our favorite mocha without cream. The outside world was changing to a magical afternoon of thunderstorms and dusky hue. We didn’t have umbrella but I wanted to go out in the rain to photograph the sky.
“Not all stories evaporate.” I murmured.
There are stories that we love sharing with others. There are stories that fade as soon we find them unappealing, ghastly. There are stories that stay with us because the listeners accept them. We are made of stories. We all are. Each moment, each catastrophe, each memory, each yearning is a story.
As I sipped mocha, it became clear to me what went wrong in her story.
The heart feels what it wants to feel. The ears hear what they want to hear. We tell what we want to tell. In the process, so many words change their routes and step into another story to transform the feelings. Our story changes as we grow old, as we grow apart, as we experience the inevitable.
“There are stories that we don’t want to share. There are stories that we don’t tell even ourselves. They are buried in the deepest layers. They are made of amicable sentiments, smudgy wounds, and fancy desires. They are subtle and precious; we fear we’ll lose them. So we reflect only the acceptable ones, dream the less-worthy ones, discuss the relatable ones. Years pass and those stories do not match with our realities anymore, because we become what we think every day. ” I concluded.
It stopped raining when we came out of the cafe. The clouds in the sky changed to their evening attire. I looked up and found a love story in the clouds: red and very visible.